splinters
by strangesmallbard
Summary: "wait, are you trying to run away? is that what's happening right now?" regina drums her fingertips on the wheel. "no," she says. petulantly if regina mills was ever in all of her lifetimes, petulant. "are you coming or not?" (emma and regina after the split queen situation (more or less) resolves. they're terrible at avoiding each other.)


emma thinks the picket fence makes sense. after it all, of course there should be a picket fence. a fresh coat of paint, glossy pale in harsh sunlight can only mean good things like beginnings.

killian with a fresh sheen of sweat under noon, smiling pearly. _found out this is part of the package, love._ emma wondering why he was fucking browsing reddit with her clean unclean hands stuck in the pockets of her blazing red jacket. smiling back.

what doesn't make sense is her messy ponytail at 2 am, still at the office, still not home, still waiting for some prodigal dictionary definition to start connecting the dots any time soon.

it's freezing. she's gotta fix that thermostat.

she throws a dart and it missed the bullseye by five inches. she only hit the bullseye once, four days ago, in this same shirt probably, the same thump behind her ribs telling her gogogo. once you hit the bullseye, hon, there's nowhere else you can go, nowhere else that's right.

foster parent, age nine. or ten.

in a haze of the aching, she hoists the jacket over her shoulders and leaves the station. leaves the dart board. signs the last form she'd procrastinated the night on.

she focusses on the squeak in her sneakers on linoleum and thinks of the fence, the pink door, porch light maybe, north star bright.

no, wait, she doesn't have a porch light yet. next week. maybe. she was thinking of-

* * *

-what kind of stupid fuck is she. she touched the fence and the paint is still wet. she has wet paint on her hands. she's not even drunk. she has wet paint on her hands and she's not even drunk.

it hits her. like a bullseye. yep. she's happy the lights aren't on. the dark violet of her bedrooms curtains is some kind of inner fucking sanctuary.

see, she used to spend time with her kid when she didn't want to see her boyfriend. and her kid's mom. regina. regina.

regina is soft endings after six pm. evil queen brushing the tip of her laugh, and dark swan somewhere in the tense of emma's fingers around her own kneecaps.

reginas hand on her wrist on her kneecaps saying, _thanks for coming over. our drinking nights are fun._

but god, are they both still there.

regina is hard beginnings at ten am and everyone is shouting _kill her kill her,_ and the evil queen is scared only in the eyes.

emma's hands have fucking paint on them.

* * *

when headlights flash shiny on the fence, emma laughs. spark on the dynamite.

yesterday she would have said it was fate. maybe two hours ago. something solemn and grand under that. but emma doesn't do either of those. or laugh. emma takes apart appliances and runs away with the parts still frayed on the counter.

so, fuck fate, really. she laughs.

"hello, madam mayor," she says, tapering off hoarse. "fancy meeting you here."

regina arches a brow in the same shape of her hand around the wheel. "you weren't in the sheriff's office," she says.

emma isn't used to the short, spiky hair. feels mismatched as this whole shitting town gripping cement with purple smoke.

she sticks her paint hands in her back pockets and shrugs. "well, i got tired. so i went home. amazing how that works."

regina sighs and rolls those (dead, not dead, so alive) big eyes. "david tells me you've been staying late. i didn't ask for the information, he happened to volunteer it. he's worried."

fucking parents like ants across her skin. that blanket was itchy but she slept with it every night, hoping beyond recommendation of group home. she'd endure it for the purple, soft ribbon that spelled the one thing given to her.

regina's worried. emma can always tell. even now. all of the frayed, mismatched wires and ribbons.

she shifts on her feet. "i've had a lot of work to do."

regina sighs, again. she unlocks the mercedes. "i haven't given you new work in weeks. care for a ride, ms. swan ?"

the familiarly grazes the back of her neck, warmth in expanses of cold. emma looks behind her, again, hoping for. hoping for. "i live...here."

regina gives a smile, slow and low in emma's belly, where she stores more parts of feelings she left on a rooftop this time. "not a ride home, emma."

"where, then? along the yellow brick road?"

regina's a wearing a soft purple sweater. emma can see her swallow. "i was thinking…" she stares at her hands. she laughs. "funny. i've missed you. why do i keep missing you."

something big is caught in emma's throat but she can breathe. she can breathe through every pore and vein and story. "we keep doing...i don't know. i don't even think we did anything to each other this time."

regina's smile is two lifetimes, three curses. "i asked you to kill me."

"well, yeah." emma looks her at her paint hand, fucking stupid. "but that's not new. i think."

regina's brows soften like a sunset. she looks so suddenly lost, like she just figured out what showing up here means. or maybe that she didn't mean to. meant to visit gravesites instead. the line. the tombs. the clock tower. anywhere.

the curtains behind them are still dark, hopefully.

oh fuck, bullseye.

"wait, are you trying to run away? is that what's happening right now?"

regina drums her fingertips on the wheel. "no," she says. petulantly if regina mills was ever in all of her lifetimes, petulant. "are you coming or not?"

emma looks behind at the dark curtains. she imagines a silhouette behind them, hand clenched into some kind of tired fist by his side asking where did she go. _where did that bright girl go, love._ i know i can bring her back, we just have to try. try more. close the curtains.

through chilled lung tissue, she takes her hands out of her pocket and ducks into a mercedes that smells like the feeling still at the back of her neck.

they're the closest they've been all month. the shape of her form across from emma, her hand tucking hair behind her ear, curling her hand back down her neck to settle in her lap. jesus all christ, she's not writing a thesis. just breathe in and out.

dark swan wraps the word weakness around her wrist, throat, but the rest of her crash lands with the north star. the great finally.

regina's brow crinkles. "what the hell happened to your hands?"

god, asshole.

she laughs warmth, and leans back. "just drive, regina."

* * *

they end up somewhere dingy in the forest. beautiful purples crest over green tipped trees, and it's all blanketed by a smooth, cool fog that blocks the stars. the moon is left hazy, a lavalamp glow. but dingy. broken branches and bottles, that one log setup like a bench but where the hell did it come from, huh. fairytale fucking forest. emma likes it.

regina chooses to be a dramatic ass and lean against one of the oaks. emma sits on the log and oh, wait, she's not being dramatic, just practical. the log is wet as hell.

"so, you missed me," she chooses to say instead of, oh shit my butt is wet. these were my favorite skinny jeans.

 _mine too,_ mind regina says. shit.

regina gives her an amused kind of smile, "you're not the _worst_ company, you know."

she leans her elbow on her knee, head on her elbow. "so i'm second behind leroy?"

regina smirks. crosses her arms in a mockery of- "the blue fairy."

emma laughs again and shit is she getting hoarse. "ooh, harsh. how will i ever redeem myself?"

regina doesn't answer. she's looking into the woods, dinge and all.

there are really no stars tonight. maybe they're hiding from this conversation too. maybe she's dreaming this. maybe she should have tried for the bullseye harder, then she wouldn't be drumming her fingers on a fucking wet log-

oh, _motherfucker._

regina is at her side in an instant, eyes panicked.

"what? what is it?

she said that out loud.

regina is holding her wrist with both hands, staring at the soft swell of blood and the jagged thing sticking out of her finger. she's holding it so gently too.

"splinter," she says and ouch ouch fuck she is not going to cry. she is so not going to cry.

regina lightly touches her cheek. "do you…i need to pull it out right now so it won't get infected. but i'm going to need you to help me."

dark swan is fucking losing her shit.

"i trust you," emma says, eyes up when she realizes what she's let tumble. not for the first time. but the first without thinking. "with magic?"

regina is staring at her, six pm in her hands and that wonder in her eyes emma has come to understand as theirs. for these moments when nothing should make sense but is an absolute twentytwenty. from fucking jefferson's hat till now, with surprise turns in the road that aren't sharp.

she nods and she feels magic rise under her veins. it doesn't feel bad or good. it doesn't have to, always. she watches the splinter disintegrate and the blood vanish too.

regina strokes the hand she's still holding. she gives a smile full of concern. "better?"

"yeah," she says and doesn't take her hand away.

regina does. slowly. she puts her hand in the pockets of her slacks and sits down next to emma. she gives the world's smallest shriek and stands back up. she glares with no fire.

regina mills, kinda cute.

"why the _hell_ are you still sitting there? that water is filthy!" she waves at the backs of her thighs and emma fucking loses her shit.

"this isn't funny, swan! these are my favorite pair."

emma raise a brow. "mine too."

oh

fuck

foot out of mouth.

her glare catches the spark and emma has no idea if she's blushing but she looks mad. looks _hurt._ this was not the ending of any incredibly embarrassing tangent in emma's head.

"don't do that," she says, scratchy and low. "we're friends. you're with-" she clears her throat. "you should go back."

"friends compliment each other," emma says without convincing herself. "we can be friends again. that's what we keep learning, right? we couldn't destroy the darkness in us, but learned how to hold it. we're holding it together." fuck.

fucking fucking magnets.

regina twists her lips up and leans forward, across her crossed arms. "we are friends, emma. again, if you want to be. we are."

"right!" she says, stands up too close to her with a desperate lurch. "and i'm not going back yet, because i want to hang out with my friend. who gets it. you know."

soft, warm air grazes across her face. emma's hands waiver by her shoulder. caress the ends of her hair. she needs to step away.

"right," regina says and takes the hand by her hair, holds it. gentle grip. "we still have to go back soon. storybrooke won't thank us for sleep deprivation."

"to be honest? i think they need a break from us too."

regina gives a punctuation laugh and looks down. shakes her head. emma leans forward, foreheads touching, waiting? touching. familiar breath at her lips, fingers at the back of her neck. they drop and emma wants them at her waist. wants them to hold her waist. hold on.

"i don't know why i asked you to come here," regina says, sounding tired.

"you missed me," emma offers. sometime in the word _missed_ , they came up again to touch the short strands.

"your hands smell like paint," regina says simply.

"yeah, i bet," emma says. she doesn't kiss her.

* * *

they go back around four, laughter left behind. always something. they don't talk during the drive, and emma's head lulls by the windowpane. still, no stars.

regina drops her off and emma thinks about how she hugged the evil queen, one hand clutching the back of her neck. nothing gentle. all gentle. dark swan laughing inside with brimming dry ice hate and snatching words from her throat.

dark swan looking her in the eye, she thinks. what do you want. why am i dark. why do i need to be why am i here why the fuck did you get paint on your hands.

the fence is still standing. of course. there was simplicity there, but she could never get a firm grasp on how to wear the life inside it.

"regina," emma says. her hands are back on the steering wheel, like they hadn't fucking deep talked in the dingy fairytale wood. "can i come over tomorrow?"

regina smiles, brightly aching. "i'll tell henry."

she drives off, and emma. wants.

to sleep.

* * *

he's not even there. he's not even fucking home.

emma surrounds herself in the couch that doesn't smell like them and laughs. it'll smell like log water tomorrow.


End file.
